MY fair friend, Miss Clack, having laid down the pen, there are two reasons for my taking it up next, in
my turn.

In the first place, I am in a position to throw the necessary light on certain points of interest which have
thus far been left in the dark. Miss Verinder had her own private reason for breaking her marriage engagement--
and I was at the bottom of it. Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite had his own private reason for withdrawing all claim
to the hand of his charming cousin--and I discovered what it was.

In the second place, it was my good or ill fortune, I hardly know which, to find myself personally involved--
at the period of which I am now writing--in the mystery of the Indian Diamond. I had the honour of an
interview, at my own office, with an Oriental stranger of distinguished manners, who was no other, unquestionably,
than the chief of the three Indians. Add to this, that I met with the celebrated traveller, Mr. Murthwaite,
the day afterwards, and that I held a conversation with him on the subject of the Moonstone, which has
a very important bearing on later events. And there you have the statement of my claims to fill the position
which I occupy in these pages.

The true story of the broken marriage engagement comes first in point of time, and must therefore take
the first place in the present narrative. Tracing my way back along the chain of events, from one end
to the other, I find it necessary to open the scene, oddly enough as you will think, at the bedside of my
excellent client and friend, the late Sir John Verinder.

Sir John had his share--perhaps rather a large share--of the more harmless and amiable of the weaknesses
incidental to humanity. Among these, I may mention as applicable to the matter in hand, an invincible
reluctance--so long as he enjoyed his usual good health--to face the responsibility of making his Will.
Lady Verinder exerted her influence to rouse him to a sense of duty in this matter; and I exerted my
influence. He admitted the justice of our views--but he went no further than that, until he found himself
afflicted with the illness which ultimately brought him to his grave. Then I was sent for at last, to take
my client's instructions on the subject of his Will. They proved to be the simplest instructions I had ever
received in the whole of my professional career.

Sir John was dozing, when I entered the room. He roused himself at the sight of me.

`How do you do, Mr. Bruff?' he said. `I shan't be very long about this. And then I'll go to sleep again.' He
looked on with great interest while I collected pens, ink, and paper. `Are you ready?' he asked. I bowed,
and took a dip of ink, and waited for my instructions.

`I leave everything to my wife,' said Sir John. `That's all.' He turned round on his pillow, and composed
himself to sleep again.

I was obliged to disturb him.

`Am I to understand,' I asked, `that you leave the whole of the property, of every sort and description, of
which you die possessed, absolutely to Lady Verinder?'

His property was entirely at his own disposal, and was of two kinds. Property in land (I purposely abstain
from using technical language), and property in money. In the majority of cases, I am afraid I should
have felt it my duty to my client to ask him to reconsider his Will. In the case of Sir John, I knew Lady
Verinder to be, not only worthy of the unreserved trust which her husband had placed in her (all good
wives are worthy of that)--but to be also capable of properly administering a trust (which, in my experience
of the fair sex, not one in a thousand of them is competent to do). In ten minutes, Sir John's Will was
drawn, and executed, and Sir John himself, good man, was finishing his interrupted nap.